Johnny went to sleep, or passed out, and in the quiet you hear Jake say faintly, “Well, I guess we’d better clean up.”
He and I got down on the floor and began cleaning up peanut hulls and brownies, putting them in a trash can between us. The recorder was on the floor near him. He started a commentary, pretending he was our spokesperson, testifying before a military judge. His speech was slightly slurred, but spirited. “These men are here today, Your Honor, not proud, but contrite.” (Long pause.) “They were unaware that their somewhat raucous—though innocent—social behavior would have any, even one single solitary, unsavory consequence. These are good men, Your Honor, and I can only hope that you will recognize that they are the backbone of our American armed forces and that you will—”
The door creaks open: our commander, Colonel Bennington. He walks over.
I remember looking up at him standing there. From my perspective down on the floor, he looked tall, even though he was a short man. He asks a question, but his voice is so quiet you can’t make it out on the tape.
Jake responds: “Brownies, sir.”
Last Flights
OUR LITTLE BLUES BAND’S main audience for the afternoon and night music sessions was two bachelors who lived with us in BOQ 16: Johnny Hobbs and Rob Stedman. Johnny liked the music of Mose Allison (especially his rendition of “One Room Country Shack”) and any number of tunes from Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee.
Rob, a shy midwesterner with a crew cut, the only jazz aficionado among us, enjoyed talking about any kind of music and owned a more extensive collection of tapes and records than any of us. He had a kind of swaying, bow-legged walk and was slightly pigeon toed, and when he handled things, his elbows stuck out and his index fingers always seemed to be held up and curved somehow—the mannerisms of a left-handed baseball pitcher. You would not have been surprised to see him go into a stretch at any moment, check first base, and then try the pickoff. His demeanor and spirit were those of a gentle uncle.
Rob lived on the first floor of BOQ 16 in the middle of the party zone. But he didn’t party much because of his devotion to Linda, who was waiting for him at home in Florida.
We bought Rob a bottle of champagne to help us all celebrate as soon as he landed from his last F-4 flight. We planned to meet him at the airplane. We didn’t always go to this much trouble, but this was not only Rob’s last flight in the F-4, but his last flight in the Air Force. He wasn’t just going home; he was going home to marry Linda. She’d visited Rob in Yokota and we all liked her a lot.
That last mission was to be a simulated bombing mission, involving a pop-up bombing maneuver. Four aircraft, in single file, would fly at low level toward a mountain and then at the last minute pop up to bomb a target on the other side of the mountain. The target, I assume, was straight ahead, unlike most targets, which were usually approached from a ninety-degree angle high above the target. The problem was to make the transition from a climbing attitude straight at the target (over the mountain) to a dive. The flight leader briefed a kind of barrel-roll roll-in on the target. Had I been in the flight, I would have been surprised because I’d never heard of such a thing, much less practiced it.
Rob and Davie Long, Rob’s front-seater, were number two. Apparently the lead’s aircraft got very slow on the maneuver, and before Davie initiated the same maneuver, he had to reduce speed to keep adequate distance behind the lead aircraft. Apparently the combination of a strange maneuver and being too slow caused Rob’s F-4 to stall at low altitude, perhaps while inverted, and then to crash, killing both pilots.
A pilot in an aircraft behind Rob’s reported that only Rob ejected, and his parachute opened, but he drifted into the fireball made by the crash of his aircraft.
An investigation found that fire had burned Rob’s parachute shroud cords, releasing him from his parachute—too high in the air for him to survive the impact.
I was asked to be Rob’s summary courts officer, meaning it would be my job to inform Rob’s family of his death, to gather his belongings together—in short, to take care of things for him.
I sent a telegram to Linda and then wrote her a letter. The officer at the morgue gave me Rob’s belongings, including his boots, which were torn at the seams from impact, and his watch, which was stopped at 4:17. The morgue officer asked me if I wanted to see Rob.
I said no.
Linda wrote me back. I remember these words from her letter: “I never before knew the meaning of despair.”
SIX OTHER PILOTS died in aircraft accidents at Yokota during my eighteen-month assignment, but none were friends. At least two more who were friends died in noncombat crashes within a few years. Another pilot from Yokota, Dave Grant, upgraded to the front seat, went to Vietnam, became a POW, and was released in 1973.
After Rob died, Jake Brooks said to me, “I get his radio.”
I looked at him funny.
“Oh,” he said, “you haven’t been to Vietnam, have you? I was kidding. That’s how we handled it.”
It made sense. I realized that any reaction—from me—to Mike Tressler’s death, early on in my Japan tour, had been muted. And now with Rob’s death, a much closer friend, I’d somehow been unable, perhaps unwilling, to do anything that resembled mourning.
AS WE FINISHED our F-4 days in Japan, I awaited word about my new assignment. I’d be going to Southeast Asia for sure, but in what airplane?
Staying in the F-4 meant upgrading to the front seat and remaining in the Air Force two years beyond my five-year commitment, so I applied for an OV-10, mainly because of the buzz about this new little twin-engine turboprop aircraft. It looked odd but was very fast and fully aerobatic (meaning you could fly it upside down). The T-37, T-38, and F-4 had been aerobatic, and I didn’t want a step-down.
The OV-10, a tandem two-seater, a reconnaissance and “strike control” aircraft, would get me into the front seat, alone. The OV-10 backseat was used for instruction only. The mythology of the World War I and II aces, who flew alone, was still strong.
Before my last flight in the F-4, news came: OV-10 to SEA.
PART 4
(1970)
PREPARING FOR COMBAT
War Fever or Flying Fever?
I CAME HOME FROM Japan in the early spring of 1970. My schedule for the remainder of the year would be as follows: I’d spend three months, from March to May, in air-gunnery training in the T-33, an old jet trainer, at Cannon Air Force Base in Clovis, New Mexico, in preparation for three months, from June to August, checking out the OV-10 at Hurlburt Field, Fort Walton Beach, Florida. In September I’d go to the Philippines for five days of jungle-survival training, and in October I’d be assigned to Southeast Asia for a year, as a “FAC.”
FAC meant forward air controller. A FAC directed fighter-bombers against enemy ground targets. My main combat job would be to shoot a white phosphorus smoke rocket at a target and then radio information to fighter-bomber aircraft. When the rocket hit the ground, smoke billowed up from the impact, and once the smoke was sighted by fighter-bombers high overhead, my job would be to say exactly where the target was in relation to the smoke, and then clear the bombers (give them permission) to drop bombs on the target, which might or might not be clearly visible. After the fighter-bombers left, I would visually assess the damage and report that to headquarters.
The OV-10 could also shoot high-explosive rockets and strafe with four internally mounted machine guns if necessary during a battle or rescue attempt.
In Southeast Asia we’d be stationed in South Vietnam, where the mission would be to direct bombing during ground battles between troops, or in Thailand, where our mission would be to direct bombing of the Ho Chi Minh Trail in Laos. No U.S. or South Vietnamese troops were allowed in Laos (or so I then believed), thus there would be no close air support of troops there.
As to my thoughts about the war, they were about the same as they’d been several years earlier. I realized this when I was home in 1970 and read the words of a letter I’d w
ritten from Laredo in the summer of 1967. My father had advised me not to go into the military. He had never been with me to an airport. He was not a pacifist, but he had little room in his life for risk. From early on he didn’t want me to play football, wanted me to stay out of deep water. He himself would not board an aircraft or a boat, nor would he drive a car in the mountains.
My mother and aunt, who wrote to me often, underlined words for humorous effect—old sayings, malapropisms, and so forth—and I’d picked up the habit.
Here’s the letter from flight training in 1967:
Well Hello,
Hope all is going well at home. I’m doing just fine.
The trip this weekend [a solo cross-country flight] was really nice. California and the Sierra Mountains, etc., were all beautiful from the air. I took a bunch of pictures and will be sending home a bunch when I get them back.
The yearbook is coming along pretty slowly right now. We’ve really got a lot of work to do before Sept. 15th. That’s when we should complete our layout to send in to the publisher. I’ve got 3 or 4 guys helping me with it.
All that food from the garden is really something—it sure sounds good.
Daddy, it would be better to talk to you about this and maybe we can talk it over in Oct. but all I can do now is write:
I have no idea now about what my assignment will be when I get out of here in about 6 or 8 weeks. I will write down the list of airplanes I want to fly in order of preference, for example: (1) F-100, (2) F-102, (3) F-101, (4) F-4C, (5) C-130, (6) C-141. Then those in charge of assignments will give me the highest on my l i s t that they can—depending on openings. Now of all the planes I can put down, some of each kind are being used in Viet Nam. That’s not my choice, that’s just the way it is: The Air Force is using some of just about every type of plane they have in Viet Nam. So I very well might get an airplane of a type that’s being used in Viet Nam; however, I could very easily be assigned to Germany or England or Florida or even Virginia instead of Viet Nam. (Because not all of every type is being used in Viet Nam.)
On the phone you didn’t ask me how I felt about going to Viet Nam. I think it’s very important how I feel about it (and I know you do) and I’ve given it very much serious thought and heard and read about many different viewpoints. Captain Dunning spent a tour (1 year) in Viet Nam. Also there are about 5 instructors in our flight who have been and there are many other instructors on base who have been. Some missions in Viet Nam consist of carrying supplies to Army camps. Some missions consist of carrying medical supplies. Major Stricker, who is a member at Capt. Dunning’s church, flew medical supplies, food, etc., around to different villages. There are also reconnaissance missions (picture taking). Then of course there are the combat missions. Some Viet Nam tours last 1 yr. and some last 6 months and some last for 100 missions. At present, no pilot has to serve more than one tour except on rare occasions or when he volunteers.
I do not agree with everything the United States is doing in V.N. At least I don’t agree with the way some things are being done, but I do believe we should be there because I have studied the reasons we are there and I know the basic cause of the trouble and very simply stated it’s this: Those leaders who are behind the communists are determined to do everything possible to take over Viet Nam, then Thailand, then other countries in Asia, Africa, South America, Latin America, and the final goal is the U.S. That’s exactly what they want (can and might do it) and what they are fighting for. And thanks to UNC and what I’ve read I know enough about communism to understand that it’s bad.
If I thought that this has nothing to do with me and that I should stay away from it I would stop flying tomorrow and say, “Give me another job. I don’t want to take a chance on going to Viet Nam.” And that’s exactly what they would do. They would relieve me of my flying duties, and I would not have to worry about going to Viet Nam. It’s called SIE: self-initiated elimination, and I have that right to quit.
I cannot do that tho, because I would be going against what I believe and what I feel. I’m not afraid of going to Viet Nam if it comes to that, and if I said I was afraid of going and if I tried to get out of going, then I’d be living a lie and I can’t do that.
I hope you sorta see how I feel. I respect your ideas very much and am very much interested in what you think about what I do. Likewise I want you to see and understand the way I feel. I’m not going to try to get a Viet Nam assignment, but if I’m given a Viet Nam assignment I’m not going to say, “Oh, no, I don’t want to go.” I’ll simply say, “I’m ready.” And the reason I’ll say that is because it’s the truth. I am ready if it’s necessary for me to go. I’m not afraid.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX [something crossed out]. Oh, well, enough about all that. I might just end up back here in Laredo as an instructor. Frankly, I think 3 more years (instructor assignments are 3 yrs.) here would drive me out of my head. It has advantages tho.
Listen, Daddy, be sure to vote Republican in ’68 and maybe this country will get straightened out and finish up in Viet Nam for good. I’ve been telling you all along that Republican is the only way to go. Ha.
We’ll talk it all over in October.
Your son,
Clyde
P.S. I sure feel better after writing this!
T-33 Air-to-Ground Gunnery
PRELIMINARY GUNNERY TRAINING in the T-33 would teach us how to shoot rockets and drop practice bombs from a front seat. We’d also learn about problems that fighter-bomber pilots might encounter on bombing runs in Southeast Asia while we, as FACs, directed them from the OV-10. Those of us who had already flown fighters were not exempt from this training.
Among the T-33 trainees were older pilots who’d flown all kinds of airplanes, including single-seat fighters. There were also youngsters straight out of pilot training, and a few of us who’d flown backseat in the F-4. The T-33 was the trainer version of the then-ancient P-80, the first operational jet fighter (1945) in U.S. history.
My having to do this T-33 gunnery training was like Brer Rabbit’s being thrown into the briar patch. I knew I was going to love it because it meant flying alone, flying formation, and flying bombing-range patterns.
A range pattern works like a traffic pattern: the aircraft flies in a big rectangle and drops bombs or shoots rockets or strafes with machine guns during one of the legs of the rectangle.
The rocket and bomb patterns are from higher altitudes than traffic patterns for landing, and the strafing pattern takes the aircraft closer to the ground than either bomb or rocket patterns. After bombs are released or rockets or bullets are shot at a make-believe target, the aircraft comes out of its dive and climbs to pattern altitude to fly around for the next ordnance (jargon for bombs, rockets, or bullets) delivery. The target for bombs and rockets is a large bull’s-eye on the ground. Observers in a tower nearby (but not too near) measure the accuracy of each bomb or rocket and call out, “Fifteen at six” (meaning the bomb or rocket hit fifteen meters to the six o’clock position of the bull’s-eye), “Thirty at nine,” and so forth. And if a bomb or rocket hits the bull’s-eye, the pilot hears, “Shack.”
The target for bullets from machine guns was a soccer-goal-like device that automatically counted the number of bullets entering the goal.
Groups of us in our class were assigned to instructors. Mine was a Dustin Hoffman look-alike named Riley Porter, a captain, and an instructor who loved to laugh and call his students “plumbers.” “You’re a plumber, Edgerton,” he might say after a flight in which I’d made a mistake. “Is he a plumber or what?” he’d say to other student pilots. But Porter was not a screamer. He was the only humorist I ever had as an instructor. It was all fun and games. But intense. We had to learn to fly this old bird in a week or so and then within the remainder of our three months become proficient at air-to-ground gunnery.
The T-33 was a clunker, slow on the uptake. It would finally get to moving along on takeoff roll, with its single jet engine wide open (no afterburner), an
d then lift into the air only after a long roll. It handled well in the air, but its technology was archaic. For example, fuel fed into a central fuel tank from three separate feeder tanks—one at a time—and when fuel was about to run out of one, a red light came on and a manually operated switch turned a valve so that another tank could feed. A buddy forgot to make a switch one day, and the engine flamed out; he couldn’t get the engine restarted, and ejected safely.
After we were each checked out in the T-33, we flew to the gunnery range in four-ship formation unless mechanical problems (common in the old T-33) forced one of us to abort the flight.
Captain Porter had four air-to-ground gunnery students, old and young. When a four-ship went to the range, we each flew alone in our airplane except for the lead aircraft. Captain Porter would ride in the backseat of that aircraft, where there was a second set of flight controls.
The pilots and instructor always met for a flight briefing about ninety minutes before takeoff, talked over every detail of the upcoming flight, and then caught a van to the flight line. The routine was the same as ever. After preflighting our aircraft (we were assigned aircraft by the numbers printed on the tail), we each strapped in with the help of an enlisted man whose job was to be with us until we taxied away.
At this point in my flying career—I’d been flying for about three years—I was confident, and stepping out of the van and facing a jet aircraft, even a clunky old T-33, that was about to be mine for more than an hour, made my blood rise. I’d say hello to the airman assigned to the aircraft; look over the aircraft logbook, which recorded recent maintenance; ask the airman any pertinent questions; and check the general condition of the aircraft, including landing gear, landing gear struts, wheels, guns, bomb canisters, and my ejection seat. This walk-around was not unlike that walk-around in the Cherokee 140, back when I first started flying with Mr. Vaughn. He would have said, “Well, yeah”—sniff—“pretty much the same thing except for the guns and ammo. But you’ve got to use that checklist.”
Solo Page 12